


The Last Craftsman

by cyevi



Category: Dragon Ball
Genre: BVDN, Bulma knows things, Celtic Mythology & Folklore, F/M, Non-Saiyan AU, One-Shot, TPTH Drabble
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-04
Updated: 2020-10-04
Packaged: 2021-03-07 23:00:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,467
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26825539
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cyevi/pseuds/cyevi
Summary: Bulma has been looking for a highly qualified appraiser to evaluate her mother's heirloom for a while. Today, she thinks she's found him.
Relationships: Bulma Briefs/Vegeta
Comments: 7
Kudos: 38
Collections: Bulma and Vegeta Drabble Night





	The Last Craftsman

**Author's Note:**

> Completed as part of the October BVDN at The Prince and the Heiress discord community! Hosted by the ever fabulous RockyKelboa, the night was filled with amazing stories and excellent art! I highly recommend joining whether you are an author, artist, or just a fan. The theme of the night turned out to be The Beatles and HannabellLector made this totally groovy cover art for the event!

**Prompt: Invasion**

A few hover cars, a couple entering a bistro, and a lone dog walker tugged along by a half dozen pups peppered the city street. It was oddly absent the crowds she expected for this end of the city. Before her, the tidy shop gleamed with high polished windows and modern siding. The exterior felt slick and in direct contrast with the single, exquisitely embroidered lamp sitting in the front display. Above the shop, a precision carved sign, possibly made from rain forest harvested cherry, hung by copper chains, like a soft golden beacon.
    
    
        .----------------.
       | _**Grade I Antiques**_ |
       |        _~~_        |
       |    _Proprietor_    |
       |   _K.V. & Sons_    |
       |        _~~_        | 
       |    _Since 1764_    |  
        '----------------'

In an odd moment of insecurity, Bulma hoped her entrance wouldn't be regarded by the experts inside as an amateurish invasion.

**Prompt: Hysteria**

As she pushed the door open, the top rim caught a tiny spring bell. A delightful jingle announced her entrance into the otherwise quiet shop. With the exception of the front display window, the others must have been coated with a sun reflecting, one-way film. The other contents of the store, each carefully displayed with enough area for patrons to walk around them in full circles complete with museum quality lighting positioned expertly to highlight the qualities and materials of every antique, had been hidden from the street view. Even the air felt delightfully crisp! The dedication to the art of preservation almost threw her brain into hysterics. If anyone could understand the value of her heirloom, they would be at this shop.

**Prompt: Help**

With her boxy satchel clutched to her hip, Bulma navigated the store, thankful she had chosen a subdued gray stripe, body-hugging skirt suit ensemble. Each object under its precise lighting whispered to her: _be respectful, be silent_. She paused in front of a large brooch decorated with pale pink roses, carved enamel, gold leaves without a hint of oxidation or fade, and one large green gem in the center. The case had no descriptive information, like you might find in a museum, and certainly no price tag. She realized there weren't even signs to avoid touching the glass of the cases.

“Can I help you?”

She couldn't see the back counter, but she did see a black flame of hair that had spoken.

**Prompt: Yesterday**

With her heels clicking against the floor, Bulma made her way to the back of the shop. The counter looked to be a well-crafted wooden bureau with the back facing the store. She hesitated. She pulled the strap of her satchel from her shoulder and held the box with two hands.

“I believe my assistant phoned you yesterday about an appraisal.”

The man behind the counter sat facing the side wall, examining an item under a soft light and a multi-lens magnifying glass. Other than his wild hair, his appearance matched the store. A smart tweed vest sat atop a pressed white shirt, the collar done up to his neck. She noted the white gloves covering his fingers and smiled.

**Prompt: The Sun**

The appraiser sighed. He set his tools to the side, leaned back, then turned off the work light at the desk before standing. She saw that he had fashionably tailored slacks with a fine leather belt. His silhouette exuded meticulousness. He pulled a pair of rectangular glasses, gold-rimmed, from his vest pocket and slipped them over his ears. The spectacles brought his steady, dark eyes to her attention. When he crossed his arms, his biceps bulged beneath the shirt. She kept the smile on her lips.

“Yes, Ms. Briefs,” he began. “And he was told that there were no appraisal spots available today. Regardless of your fame, you are not the sun, nor the moon of my world. You will wait.”

The smile disappeared.

**Prompt: Lonely Heart**

Belligerently, she sat her clutch onto the counter and unlatched the front. Together, the appraiser and the heiress shared a scowl.

“That brooch you have over there is exquisite.” Bulma commented. “Vitreous enamel, if I'm not mistaken? A beautiful example early 19th century work. I wouldn't be surprised to learn that it used a ronde-bosse technique, even though the engraving is distinctly not Gothic.”

The appraiser arched a thick brow and cleared his throat.

“I was under the impression that you worked in the sciences, Ms. Briefs.”

“Indeed, but we all need hobbies,” she surmised with a curve on her lips. “Now perhaps you could warm my lonely, curious heart with a quick appraisal of a beloved family heirloom?”

**Prompt: Hard Day**

“I appreciate the difficulties in your days. I assure you, my assistant and I searched the globe for the right appraiser for this heirloom for months.”

His expression softened and he pulled the container across the counter, opening the clutch. The interior was lined with precision molded foam and covered with delicate red silk. Nestled into its own silhouette sat a bronze buckle with a faded brown trident design set flush into the metal. Eroded by time, a braid-like pattern swept around the trident, forming a rough heart shape.

“I assume the technique used was Limoges due to how well integrated the enamel is, building off the cloisonne techniques of the Byzantine era.” Bulma noted, watching the appraiser stare into the box.

**Prompt: Holding Hands**

“We've had this for so long, the story behind how it came into our family is murky at best. We've done our utmost to care for it, but as you can see, the engravings have worn down substantially. It's almost impossible now to see snakes around the edge. My best guess is 12th or 13th century France.”

“Those aren't snakes, Ms. Briefs.” The appraiser glanced at her without raising his chin. He studied her over the rim of his glasses and in the subdued lighting of the shop, the shadows framed his face, accenting the sharp angles. His voice dropped, laced with annoyance. “These are macaque tails held together by two hands at the top. And this isn't 12th century. Not even close.”

**Prompt: She Loves You**

Bulma leaned in and noticed the scent of pine and ozone. Artisans rarely wore cologne, so she surmised it was the scent of his workshop. It was pleasant, unlike the curious scowl he now viewed her with.

“Macaques? As in the monkeys from Morocco?”

“During the Ice Age, they lived as far north as Ireland.” The appraiser slipped both gloved hands into the box and carefully lifted the bronze token. “This is undeniably Celtic, made in pre-La Tène style. Probably 600 BCE.”

Bulma gasped.

The man turned the buckle over and brushed his gloved thumb over surface. As he did, the light caught the faintest engraving. Color drained from his face as he read the inscription to himself.

_THA GAOL AICE ORT_

**Prompt: Come Together**

_This has to be a fake._

“Ms. Briefs,” Vegeta began, setting the buckle back into the nest of silk. “How did your family … acquire this?” He studied her and rested his hand on the edge of the counter discretely. His knees wanted to buckle and his stomach was busy packing up his lunch for an early exit.

“Well, it's been passed along my mother's family line, not my father's. Each daughter has inherited it for generations upon generations.” Bulma turned to the side and leaned one hip against the counter. She looked up thoughtfully, one finger tapping the side of her jaw. “When Mama gave this to me, all she said was 'Keep this safe and some day, you will come together.'”

“Is that so?” Vegeta swallowed a breath and stared at the woman across from him.

_So Father didn't lie?_

“That's correct.” She turned back to him, her long, straight blue ponytail swishing around in the easy lighting of the shop. He wondered what it would look like in a long braid. “I guess I've always assumed my mother and fore-mothers thought it was some kind of love charm. Mama was very lucky in that sense. She couldn't be happier. Meanwhile, my romantic life wouldn't even qualify as a sitcom.”

She laughed at herself, but it rang false to his ears. With a quick adjustment to his glasses, he stepped around the counter and held out his still gloved hand to hers. He placed his other hand behind his back in a courtly, but old-fashioned way.

“Ms. Briefs, If I may – ” Vegeta cleared his throat as his cheeks regained a bit more color that usual. “That is, if you have a spare moment, I have a story to tell you.”

She stilled, her smile wondered if it should disappear, but then returned with a curious rise. She accepted his hand and followed him into the back of the shop. Past high bookcases closed with glass doors, past a large room likely used by their restoration team, past a small office. He walked her into a back room with tall armchairs, a fireplace, and stairs to the side.

“Please, have a seat.”

She made herself comfortable to the right of the fireplace while he tapped a remote and turned it on. Modern gas, of course, so the soot couldn't damage any of the other items.

Vegeta sat across from the heiress and for a moment, just observed her in the glowing light of the back parlor. When she shifted and raised her eyebrows, he began.

“Balor is known in Celtic legend as the God of Death. A ridiculous being. One eye, one leg. But still, he was the king of demons, the Fomori. For a time, the Fomori lived only in the dark lakes and watery depths of what would eventually become known as Ireland. To keep his status as king, Balor would send victims, mostly humans, to their depths.”

The woman turned her head to the fire to listen. She must have been wondering what in Seven Hells he was going on about.

“One day, when the sun did not rise completely and the ice stayed thick upon the ground, Balor opened his one eye and told the Fomori to feast upon the land. He would no longer need to deliver the humans himself. The Fomori tore across the frozen lands, ransacking and killing. Lug, Balor's grandson and heir, saw what his grandfather had done. Instead of leading the Fomori, as Balor had expected of his heir, Lug turned on the king and slayed the God of Death. With the help of the strongest humans remaining, Lug drove the Fomori back to the dark lakes and waters, where they have stayed ever since.”

Vegeta paused and watched the fire.

“Why did Lug betray his grandfather?”

Vegeta closed his eyes and bit the inside of his cheek. Was he really going through with this? After a deep breath, he looked at the woman.

“Balor, as you might have guessed, was a monster. But Lug was not his equal. On his mother's side, he came from the Tuatha Dé Danann. In short, the Tuatha Dé were divine craftsmen who often battled with demons. But most importantly, Lug was in love with a human woman. He didn't want her killed, so he fought for her life and for the lives of her kind.”

“That's terribly romantic,” the heiress said with a sigh.

“Indeed. The woman belonged to a tribe of nomads, who lived near the clusters of macaques. Legend suggests they were friendly to the climbing monkeys and shared their food and shelter with them. A partnership of strength. The macaques lived high, the nomads lived low. And because of this relationship, the woman's tribe knew the Fomori were heading toward them. Lug, having spent much time with the woman, had shared the secrets of his metalwork craft with her and the tribe. In return, the woman crafted a deadly trident and blessed it with her own blood.”

“Do you mean that enamel work is likely red, and not brown?”

“Correct. The woman gave the blessed trident to Lug and with it, he slew the God of Death by piercing his eye. Ever since then – ” Vegeta paused and stood. He took a few steps away from the chair.

“Yes?” The heiress leaned forward in the seat.

“Ever since then, the symbol of Lug's family, the trident made by human hands, that exact buckle you brought in, has been passed through generations, as a symbol of the Royal God of Death and his alignment with humans.”

Her brows furrowed and she nibbled on a fingertip. He clenched his hands and returned to the chair across from her.

“That is .. the buckle is a symbol of .. my family.” He removed the glove from his right hand and raised it to her. Branded onto his palm was an unmistakable trident, identical to the buckle.

She leaned back in the chair, arms on the rests and crossed one leg over the other.

“So, you're telling me you're what,” she hesitated. “A semi-divine king?”

“Almost.” Vegeta removed his glasses and neatly tucked them into his vest. Then, with total nonchalance said, “I'm a prince, the last living descendant of the Lug and the Tuatha Dé Danann craftsmen, and according to the rest of the legend, you are to become my princess.”

“What?!”

“You see, when the woman of the macaque tribe gave the trident to Lug, he made a pact with the Gods, that when one of his descendants received his trident, they would know they had found the one they should protect for all time. Throughout history, the buckle has been passed down, mother to daughter, around the world. Certainly, it wasn't always given to one of my ancestors, but from time to time, it reached us again. And now, it has reached me, by your hands. So now, I must dedicate the remainder of my life to your protection.”

Uncertainty crossed the room and rested before the fire. The appraiser and the heiress regarded each other silently. She shifted in the chair, he returned his gaze to the fire.

“Ridiculous.” She stood with a huff. “It's just a story, sir! And .. and besides! I don't even know your name. My life has no room for fairy tales.” She turned toward the door of the parlor.  
  
“Ms. Briefs,” the Prince began, his voice unsteady and low. “I have no choice in this matter. But of course, you do.”

He slipped the white glove back onto his hand and stood. She looked back at him.

He waited for her to study him. She saw it all in him now. The aristocratic lines of his form, a hidden strength in his muscles, the unnatural way his hair stood, the heavy darkness in his eyes. Her eyes widened and she parted her lips.

But she said nothing, and left him by the fire.

**Author's Note:**

> Clearly, I took some liberties with the mythology. From what I can tell, Balor was slain with a slingshot to the eye and Lug has nothing to do with humans. So, I guess there's a mashup of a bunch of legends going on here. Like with most drabbles, the fun is in writing something at breakneck speed with the intent to finish, not necessarily knowing where you're going. That said, I ended up with some rather happy coincidences in this story. While researching brooches, I also needed to know a bit about enamel crafting. That led me to the ([fairly accurate](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Vitreous_enamel)) art history blurb from Bulma, and then futher down the Wiki rabbit hole, I encountered super early examples of enamel work, specifically something called the [Witham Shield](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Witham_Shield) and straight into Celtic Lore. Throw in some [Celtic Monsters](https://celticlifeintl.com/top-ten-mythical-celtic-monsters/) and a lesson on [Irish wildlife](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Fauna_of_Ireland) and I found some pretty convenient connections to Saiyan monkeys and the warrior culture. 
> 
> A second, super special thanks again to Rockykelboa when I noticed that I was one prompt short of ten as I finished the following morning, and who instantly supplied me with the missing prompt. Turns out, prompt 7 "come together" was never posted. So in a moment of blissful serendipity, it became my 10th prompt, and I think it worked pretty well here.


End file.
